


A Pound of Flesh

by cookingwithcyanide



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Hand and Finger Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, and when you read it back later theyve mystically multiplied to 23, and yet its the horniest thing ive written all month, approximately 16oz of prime werepig fillet, description of nausea and sickness, did somebody order a little bit of mad science?, good for me!, im actually surprised this one didnt end up with sex, maxwell's guilt complex no it isnt yes it is <3, maybe just some sort of angry science?, no vomit but there is the Desire bc thats one icky snack, no? well too bad its what youre getting, not for any kind of sex act just for weird experimentation, please enjoy my famous circus act where i shove 17 adjective into a sentence, slight dubcon, wait it has lore? yeah i made it up enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookingwithcyanide/pseuds/cookingwithcyanide
Summary: "Wilson sidles up to him in the morning while Maxwell is tending the fire, with the expression he wears when he’s about to cause Maxwell no end of trouble. It isn’t immediately apparent what he has planned for him today, but Maxwell knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be swept up in something or other unpleasant, chores and expeditions and experiments... Really, what’s a pound of flesh?"Wilson gets to do mildly vindictive weird science on Maxwell. What more could you possibly want from me?
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	A Pound of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> This was in part inspired by an aside in one of journalxxx's fics, as well as a piece of art I cannot for the life of me find. Also, heavily inspired by my constant desire for Wilson to get to do WEIRD and MILDLY VINDICTIVE and in all fairness FAIRLY HORNY science! He deserves it, as a treat. He's been So good. And he's so sweet and reasonable about the whole thing, how can Max say no? Ah, decrepit old love.

Wilson sidles up to him in the morning while Maxwell is tending the fire, with the expression he wears when he’s about to cause Maxwell no end of trouble. It isn’t immediately apparent what he has planned for him today, but Maxwell knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be swept up in something or other unpleasant, chores and expeditions and  _ experiments. _

He tells Maxwell that he’s done preliminary testing on birds, rabbits, and finally a few obliging pigmen. The treatment had no effect on the birds, while the rabbits corrupted to beardlings after being force fed up to ten percent of their body weight before dying, and the pigs transformed into their were-forms after the same proportion. Human consumption of the meat anecdotally damages the health and sanity but has little other effect, whereas monsters can eat their fill and be fine. He wants to try Maxwell now- “Because you’re halfway between human and shadow-thing already, really, it’s a novel scenario! You’ve complained of the same slight detrimental side effects as other survivors before, but seem perfectly fine supplementing your diet when need be. It’s possible you’ve even built up a tolerance over time! Based on that and your approximate weight, we should start with one pound of meat. Not quite the one-tenth proportion, but enough to get some basic information, yes?” He says all this before asking Maxwell if he’d even be amenable to participate in his absurd experimentation in the first place, and Maxwell struggles not to flounder in catching himself up.

“You want me to consume a  _ pound _ of monster meat?” With his tone dry and one eyebrow arched, he’s going for sardonic, but Wilson merely nods and keeps chattering on as though Maxwell had enthusiastically agreed.

“The pigmen showed no significant progression when given additional meat after their transformation, so really it would be a waste to do more, especially as a control test.”

Despite his objections, Maxwell is morbidly curious. “How did you manage to continue on with the werepigs? I’ve never known them to accept food after they change.”

“Oh, I just had to strap them down beforehand and they’re hardly any trouble. Most of their strength comes from the momentum of their weight anyways, and they’re not exactly bright enough to object to object to the restraints once they decide you’re a friend.” Entirely misinterpreting Maxwell’s disturbed expression, he adds, “Don’t worry, I’m sure I won’t need to take that precaution with you, right? Just be good and don’t squirm and we won’t have an issue.” His smile rests somewhere between reassurance and saccharine and razor-sharp steel.

“Of course not.” Something about the idea of Wilson’s methodical, inexorable experimentation turned on him, his preoccupation with the possibility of Wilson so  _ close _ and expectant, sets him off kilter. Wilson’s roundabout rambling when he gets excited about something like this is trickier to pin down than his usual straightforward speech is, especially when driven half to distraction by strange fascination and the hand suddenly pressed to the small of his back, ushering him towards his own tent.

“I’m so glad you agree, Maxwell! I’ve taken the liberty of preparing everything ahead of time, so we should get started right away! No time like the present, after all.” He completely ignores Maxwell's squawking and coaxes him down to his own fur roll, next to which sits a stack of papyrus, a pencil, and a carved wooden bowl laden with cubes of glistening purple monster meat. It seems fresh- it’s still warm when Maxwell tentatively prods at it. When had Wilson acquired it? When had he taken the time to cut it into bite sizes and snuck it into Maxwell’s tent under his nose. It couldn’t have been more than the span of a few hours, but the plan, he knows, must have begun piecing itself together in Wilson’s grand complicated brain weeks, if not months ago, when Maxwell accounts for the extent of research Wilson has taken the care to conduct on other species before coming to him. Realizing the amount of work Wilson dedicated to getting him here, Maxwell needs a moment to process, blinking disconcerted at the heaping helping of monster meat before him.

“With the rabbits and pigmen it often got to a point where the pieces had to be small enough for me to manually insert them down the esophagus. As long as you cooperate with the process, I don’t expect to be forced to go to such extremes, but it’s best to be prepared just in case, regardless.” At that thought, imagining Wilson’s hand firm around his throat guiding bits of sickly meat down against his body’s resistance… Maxwell gulps and shudders.

“Your time on the throne… Really did not showcase the extent of your depravities.” 

To Maxwell’s growing unease, Wilson sighs almost wistfully. “Sometimes I do wish my stint as King had been longer. If only because it would provide more compelling data in a comparison study of our shadow-altered physiologies.” He gestures with one bony black claw to indicate their similarly jagged, overpopulous teeth, and Maxwell recalls an earlier time when Wilson had somehow convinced him to allow the scientist to prod extensively at his limbs and ribs and spine, rattling on in excited wonder about the uncanny jutting angles and sharpness, increased bone density, apparently akin to Wilson’s personal experience. It was one of Maxwell’s first forays into crumbling under the unstoppable force of Wilson’s determination- although, considering the odyssey leading up to his release from the Throne and their succeeding stubborn cohabitation, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the experience was one of Maxwell’s first forays into conceding his will to Wilson’s whims and thoroughly  _ enjoying _ the result. “And… well, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t  _ ideas _ I’ve had stewing that the Throne would have afforded me the ability to really explore. Experiments I haven’t been able to carry out, morally or logically…” He trails off, momentarily lost in thought. “But it doesn’t matter now! There’s plenty that I can still do to learn about the Constant, and the body, and you’re usually an obliging subject for what I can’t ask of the others.” That steely-sweet smile spreads over his face again, eyes a little too serious to be teasing. “It’s only fair turnabout, I think.”

And there it is, the reason Maxwell is so easily persuaded into Wilson’s schemes. It’s not that he feels  _ guilty, _ per say, for everything he did on the Throne- or, he does, but he knows that there’s nothing he could possibly do to remotely make it up to anyone, and the majority of the survivors seemed content to detest him from spitting distance anyways. Higgsbury though… There was no denying that Wilson had taken the brunt of Maxwell’s wrath; he had been in the Constant for the longest by far and always been Maxwell’s favorite pawn to torment. Yet, he threw countless lifetimes of suffering into freeing Maxwell from the Nightmare Throne, and allowed him into his camp when they were both thrust back into the wilderness. Between their raging arguments and endless vindication, Wilson confides in him all his insecurities regarding the lasting effects of the Throne, and his struggle to meld well with the other survivors after so long alone with his own short temper, and he sits close to him by the fire on long winter nights without hesitation. And every scrap of affection takes root and leaves Maxwell craving more. They’re lonely and abrasive men, individually and together alike, but they  _ know _ each other. They each spend more time in camps together than they do with anyone else. Acquiescing to whatever strange plans Wilson wishes to enact, complaints notwithstanding, feels like squaring up the tab a little bit. Besides, half the time Wilson has already talked him in circles and gotten them all set up for his latest ploy by the time Maxwell has enough of his bearings to figure out the extent of what he’s being signed up for. At that point, it’s usually just easier to go along with it and accept all of Wilson’s rapt attention and the intrinsic comfort of his touch than it would be to storm out and be the one to cause another fight. Really, what’s a pound of flesh?

So when Wilson picks up the first cube of gristly purple meat, Maxwell opens his mouth without complaint, and takes the sparking pain that spreads immediately down his throat with little more than a grimace. When Wilson takes his pulse at his wrist and lets his hand linger over Maxwell’s, it feels like benediction.

* * *

Before the bowl is even halfway emptied, Maxwell’s tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his jaw, throat half numb and the slick inside of his mouth stinging terribly. His gut is swollen almost painfully, the whole of him bloated and weighed down in such a way that he can hardly move, breathing heavily the pervasive smell of the inedible meat. Wilson smiles and encourages him onwards with each bite, the pieces cut small enough for him to place on Maxwell’s waiting tongue. He coos over Maxwell’s compliance, and attentively takes running vitals and observations with his cool, steady hands. He crowds in close, keeping up a low, sweet commentary that fades into pleasurable white noise that pools in the base of Maxwell’s skull between stroking down his spine to feel the position and jut of his vertebrae and pressing the back of his hand to Maxwell’s face to check his temperature and persuading him into mouthfuls of what feels more like poison going down with each new bite.

Eventually, the monster meat’s detrimental effect on his health and sanity have him dizzy, a bit woozy. He can see the shifting forms of terrorbeaks scuttling behind Wilson, just barely held at bay by the man’s nearness and exhortation, and still he keeps himself in place and opens up for each bite. The dizziness is overwhelming, nausea and pain sending needles shocking into his extremities, but if he chews, Wilson tells him how good he’s doing, how much he likes when he’s this agreeable, how very intriguing he is- the praises flowing freely from Wilson’s lips dampen the immediacy of the roiling sickness and pain. When Maxwell gulps around each slimy piece to slide heavy down his throat into his queasy, taut stomach, Wilson smiles at him so sunnily and pets soothingly over his gut, at one point gently undoing the bottom buttons of his suit when the toxic bloat becomes too uncomfortable against constricting fabric. The relief of tension is so sweet that all he can do is slur out “Thank you,” over his drooly, senseless tongue and lean into Wilson’s cool, assuaging hand when he pats his cheek. 

Wilson rests another cube of meat against Maxwell’s prickling lips, still looking at him with such keen interest and affection, and Maxwell opens his mouth obediently around Wilson’s fingers, sucking the stinging juice clean from the digits, prompting a short, delighted laugh from Wilson. “You’re really something, you know that Maxwell?” He can do nothing more than hum- more of a pained moan, if he’s honest- his vague acknowledgement, slumping forward to rest his hot sweating head on Wilson’s strong shoulder to wait for another wave of slimy queasiness to roll past him. “Come on, just a bit more now, you’re almost done. You’re doing so well for me.”

It’s… Maxwell thinks it’s only three or four more chunks from there, but it may be more. Everything has started to bleed together at the edges in an overexposed haze, into a single fuzzy, nauseated mess of the bitterness under the gamey meat, the groaning leaden pain in his gut, and the cool kindness of Wilson keeping up his praises and rubbing smooth circles over the tight bare skin of his belly, exposed where Wilson had let out the buttons when they began to strain. How perceptive of him, how considerate. Now that he’s suffered through his agreed pound of flesh, Wilson lays him down gently on the pile of furs behind him- Christ, he’d nearly forgotten where they were entirely, so focused was he on the task at hand- and keeps up his slow stroking pressure. It’s sweet relief, a comfort both from the roiling pangs and in that the touch is there at all. Wilson attends to him, lays blankets over him when he begins to shake, and the last thing Maxwell sees before a staticky sweep of feverish darkness surges upwards to overtake him is Wilson’s satisfied smile. Maxwell feels dreadfully that he is a canary, and Wilson has snatched him right from his cage.

* * *

Maxwell slams back into consciousness some indeterminable time later to shooting pains from his stomach lancing throughout his whole skeleton- he’s sweating bullets freezing cold, and more nauseous than he’s ever felt in his life. Wilson is still nearby, reviewing his notes by the light of a lantern just a few feet away.

“I’m going to-  _ eugh, _ Wilson, I’m going to be sick.”

He tries to sit up against the most ardent will of his agonized body, and Wilson puts down his papyrus and shuffles close, Maxwell thinks to help him, except he presses Maxwell back into his recline with one firm hand on his chest. It hardly takes any weight to topple him; he’s pinned like a moth under Wilson’s stern gaze. “No you’re not.”

“Wh-what? Let me up Higgsbury!” Each of Maxwell’s limbs seems to have transmuted into molten lead, and the sharp cramping throughout his whole torso isn't helping in the slightest as he tries to squirm out from under Wilson’s hand. It takes a herculean effort for him to roll onto his side, the world spinning all wrong on its axis until he manages to shakily position himself over the empty bowl still streaked with drying flakes of purple blood beside him. He’s ready to heave up the contents of his stomach, overwhelmed by the urge to expel the sickly contents that are poisoning him, until he’s empty and free of every last ounce. His jaw hangs slack, tongue hanging out to make way for the flood of saliva his gagging causes to well up, and he’s just on the verge of purging the terrible bile from himself-

And then, sighing like he’s dealing with a petulant child, Wilson clamps a hand over his mouth and pulls him away. Maxwell’s weak cry of protest is muffled behind his palm and distorted by the way his long tongue is pinned still stretched down his chin. Pulling it back into his mouth drags its still-raw skin over Wilson’s calloused fingers. The roughness and the faint salt of his sweat admittedly do distract him and settle down the intensity of the intestinal cramping. Maxwell lets his mouth hang open and weakly laves over Wilson’s palm, huffing labored breaths through his nose.

Wilson restrains him against his chest until he stops convulsing and he no longer feels like his stomach lining is turning inside out. He lets Maxwell crumple back into the furs then, but keeps holding his mouth shut as he sighs again and frowns, looking terribly disappointed in Maxwell. Maxwell somehow feels Wilson’s displeasure nearly as keenly as he does the shattering bone-pain that still ebbs through him, and he sucks softly on his palm in what he hopes is an assuaging manner. For what it’s worth, Wilson does seem to soften somewhat, warmed by affection. 

“I thought you agreed to behave, Maxwell, you’ve been doing so  _ well _ until now. Are you going to calm down or do I need to tie you down?” He eases off of Maxwell’s mouth so he can respond, wiping the smeared drool off onto his pant leg.

“There’s no need for that,” Maxwell is quick to insist. His voice is hoarse and dry, like he hasn’t had a drink in days. He clears his throat roughly. “Say, could I have some water?”

Wilson passes him a waterskin, helping to hold it steady while Maxwell takes long pulls from it until his protesting stomach has had enough. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve just been fed an unseemly amount of toxic spider flesh and been struck by an automobile.”

Wilson laughs wholeheartedly at that, and it washes over Maxwell with the same pleasant effect as the fresh water had. “It was part of the last unfortunate pigman to receive my treatment, actually. Do you have any recollection of what happened?”

“No.” Anxiety turns over in Maxwell’s chest, thinking about pigmen transforming and turning feral under the full moon, attacking and destroying- had he experienced something similar? Is that why every inch of him felt as though he’d slammed himself repeatedly against the hard earth? “What did I do?”

As though sensing his fears, Wilson settles next to him on the fur roll with his stack of notes, beginning to page through them. “Nothing  _ too _ exciting, don’t worry. You were hardly even conscious through it, I’m not surprised you can’t remember.”

“...Oh?” The papyrus is covered in messily scrawled observations and recorded metrics, illustrated periodically with Wilson's simple, clear sketches. There were Maxwell’s claws, longer and more gnarled than they are in his lap. There is his torso depicted in quick lines, spine hunched and shoulders curled forward as though in pain but stretched broad and imposing past their usual point. There was his face in profile, jaws cracked open grotesquely wide, and his tongue spilling out the side like a massive slug.  _ “Oh.” _

“These notes are from the most heightened period, but you’ve demonstrated a parabolic exaggeration in the presentation of your more monstrous traits from about halfway into the administration. See,” he gathers up one of Maxwell’s hands and flattens it against his own, tracing his fingertips over his bulging knuckles and pronounced, claw like nails. “It’s been almost nine hours, and the effects are still easing off. I want to keep you under observation until you come back to your base state, so you’re keeping whatever’s left of the monster meat down until then,” he teases, nudging Maxwell in his sore ribs.  _ “Fascinating.” _

Maxwell stares at his own distorted hand. His tongue does feel too long, too slimy for his mouth, now that he really focuses on it. He rolls his shoulders and half a dozen vertebrae crack back into place. No matter how many times it happens, there is always something so profoundly disturbing about being able to feel himself become more inhuman. Anxiety begins to well up in him once more, accompanied by yet another wave of nausea when his stomach turns over again. He laces his stretched fingers between Wilson’s, steadied by the way Wilson rubs his thumb over his knuckles. “It certainly is. Interesting.” 

Wilson leans into Maxwell’s side, wriggling his legs under Maxwell’s blanket. He’s a solid line of warmth, and Maxwell closes his eyes and takes deep breaths into his mess of hair. “You certainly are,” he sighs, settling down. “I can’t wait to see how larger quantities affect you.”

Maxwell swallows.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes love is being pretty sure your partner wont leave you alone when he tires of living with another person, but being certain he wont leave you if he’s in the middle of research he enjoys, and you want him to enjoy you. 
> 
> sometimes love is knowing your partner wont accept closeness and affection without pretense, and you cant always offer that without bitterness, and youre so curious anyways that you want to know him in every intimacy
> 
> (sometimes people who are Me dont add an end note until two days after posting because i just thought of it)


End file.
